“I’ll be up there,” I promised.
“Where have you been today?” she asked. “With Sheila Gallegan?”
“She was still in jail, the last time I saw her. Which reminds me, I’ll have to phone my attorney to see if he got her released. I’ll use Curt’s phone for that, I guess. Harvest might be uncooperative.”
“I doubt if he’s there,” she said. “He usually plays golf on Tuesday afternoons.”
At the entrance to Greg’s office, Deborah went on and I turned in. Greg’s secretary looked up, frowned, and said, “Oh, yes, Mr. Puma.”
“You remembered me,” I said admiringly. “Is Curly in?”
“Mr. Harvest is playing golf,” she said smugly. “Is there any message, Mr. Puma?”
“It’s — rather personal,” I answered. “Tell him I’ll phone him later. Would it be all right if I used his phone to make another call?”
“You could use this phone,” she said. “His office is locked.”
I used her phone to call Tom Devlin and he told me Sheila Gallegan had been released two hours ago. I asked him how much of a case they had against her.
“None,” he said. “Sergeant Macrae down there is talking big, but the D.A. wouldn’t think of going into court on what they have. The girl a client of yours or just a friend, Joe?”
“What difference does it make?”
“None. But I took her home and it’s obvious that she’s poor and I wondered what she’d pay you with, if she was a client.”
“You have a pornographic imagination, haven’t you? She’s a friend and you may send your bill to me and keep your hot little hands to yourself.”
“If that’s the way you want it, Joe. I’m kind of expensive, these days.” He hung up.
In the chair behind her small desk, Harvest’s secretary was all ears and big eyes. I said into the phone, “And another thing, Tom, Harvest’s secretary is okay. Don’t listen to those rotten things Greg was saying about her.”
I hung up and flexed a muscle in my jaw, like Greg Harvest does.
His secretary said, “You’re so funny. I’m surprised a man with all your talent has to wear such cheap suits.”
I flexed another jaw muscle, sighed, smiled at her tolerantly and went out.
The gym was deserted, smelling of liniment, canvas and sweat. In Curtis Huntington’s outer office, his elderly secretary waved me through with a smile.
I went in to find Curt standing at the window, looking out at the traffic on Wilshire. Deborah sat in a pull-up chair near his desk.
He turned and said, “Deb has told me about Harvest being at Hansen’s last night. Shouldn’t we tell the police that?”
“Not yet,” I said.
“Why not?”
I didn’t want to tell him I couldn’t be sure it was Greg. I said, “I’ve some other things to tell you about him first.”
He came over to sit behind his desk; I pulled a chair closer and sat down.
I told him about my talk with Arnold Giampolo. I included the bit about Arnold’s illness.
When I’d finished, he said, “An ambitious man, isn’t he? Harvest, I mean.”
“A real cutie,” I admitted. “Didn’t you know he was a silent partner of Giampolo’s?”
Huntington shook his head. “Of course not. I couldn’t afford to have a man of that calibre representing us.” He looked at Deborah. “We’ll have to reassess Mr. Gregory Harvest.”
“I — never quite trusted him, remember,” she said.
“I know, I know.” He smiled weakly. “But you aren’t the most consistent judge of character in the world, Deborah. Remember how you mistrusted Joe at the beginning?”
“I still do,” she said. “It’s his personal charm that keeps me on the hook.” She looked at me. “Remember you were going to phone and find out about that Gallegan girl.”
“To hell with her,” I said casually. “I found out she hasn’t got any money.”
Curt laughed. Deborah didn’t. Deborah blushed. Curt stopped laughing.
I smiled and said, “I’d like you, Deb, even if you were poor. You’re prettier than she is.”
“Keep talking,” she said. “You’ve got a long way to go.”
Curt said amiably, “Why don’t we all have dinner together and stop feuding? We can find something besides murder to talk about, I’m sure.”
Deborah said coolly, “Sorry, I have a date for dinner. As a matter of fact, I’d better get home right now. He’s calling for me at seven.”
She stood up, smiled at both of us, and left.
Curt smiled and sighed.
“Damned attractive girl,” I said, “but she would drive a husband insane in less than a month.”
He looked at me bleakly. “She wasn’t very damned far from insane herself, two years ago. But she’s getting more — adjusted every day. Deborah’s an idealist, believe it or not.”
“I believe it. Well, I’m going to look up Harvest. I want his story before I decide about telling the police. Is that okay with you?”
He smiled. “You’d have to ask Deborah. She’s your client.”
I said, “One thing I forgot to tell you about my talk with Arnold Giampolo — he plans on making Mike Petalious Mr. Big in the wrestling dodge.”
“Good,” Huntington said. “Mike’s a straight-shooter, just the man to keep the game honestly crooked.”
“Don’t tell Harvest that,” I suggested. “Mike’s tough enough, but I wouldn’t want to be responsible for making Harvest his enemy.”
He nodded. “I’ll say nothing. And what I told you about Deborah two years ago — that’s strictly between us, of course.”
“Of course,” I said.
He went back to the window to look at the traffic as I went out. I was going by Greg’s office when the impulse hit me, and I turned in.
His secretary was plucking her eyebrows. She looked at me coolly.
I said, “Forget my bad manners for a moment and my insolent attempts at humor. Just remember that I am licensed as an investigator by the State of California and am currently working directly with the Los Angeles Police Department on a double murder.”
She sat erectly in her chair. “I’m listening.”
“Did you have a date with the boss last night?” Her face froze. “I happen to be married, Mr. Puma.”
“You haven’t answered my question.”
“I’m busy. Good night.”
“All right,” I said. “But remember this, I happen to know Gregory Harvest visited the man who was killed last night. So far, I haven’t told that to the police. Under certain conditions, I may never tell them. But if I do, they’re going to ask him about it. And if he tells them who the girl with him was, they’re going to give it to the newspapers. Believe me, lady, I’m not trying to be funny now.
She inhaled heavily and stared at the tweezers still in her hand. She didn’t look at me. “Under what conditions are you going to keep it from the police?”
“If I decide he isn’t the killer and that somebody might be hurt if I told on him. Privacy is what I sell, but I can only sell it within the law and for good reasons.”
“I was with him last night,” she said quietly.
“Honestly?”
She nodded mutely.
I asked, “What did he wear last night?”
“A sport coat and slacks and one of those short, tan car coats.”
“Did he have a flashlight? There aren’t any street lights down there.”
She shook her head. “He kept the car lights on. He went up to the house and rang the doorbell, but nobody answered. Then he went to the garage and saw the car was gone so he knew Mr. Hansen wasn’t home.”
“Hansen was home,” I said. “His sister had the car. She was up in the Valley. Didn’t you read the papers this morning?”
“Of course. But I assumed they had two cars. Most people out here do, you know.”
“How many times has Hansen been here in the office?”
“I’m not going to answer any more questions,” she said. “I’ve said too much already.’ She looked at me dully. “I’ve got a jealous, impossible husband, Mr. Puma. And a three-year-old daughter whom I love very much.”
“Okay,” I said. “I can’t promise to keep my mouth shut, but I hope I’ll be able to. It depends on how cooperative Mr. Harvest is. You can tell him that.”
“I’ll be sure to,” she said. “You won’t say anything about this to the police before you talk with him, will you?”
“I promise you I won’t.” I started toward the door and then turned back. “What business did Mr. Harvest have with Hansen? Why did he go over there?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “It was something about wrestling, but I swear to you that’s all he told me.
I went out and along the walk to my car. The traffic was bumper to bumper on Wilshire and the air was blue with smog. There was a calling card on my front seat, an engraved card, Deborah Huntington’s.
I turned it over and read: Get home early tonight. I have a key I stole last time I was there.
TWELVE
WELL, TO HELL with her, blow-hot, blow-cold. Who did she think she was dealing with, some Iowa clodhopper? She was messing with a Palladium champion and she had better not hold her breath waiting for me to get home.
Desire moved through me and I inhaled heavily and tried to think of something else. I pulled out into traffic carelessly and heard the scream of braking tires from behind and the angry blasts from a number of horns.
What was she — a nympho and a klepto, too? Stealing my key … She had her nerve. I had half-a-dozen keys, but they had to be earned. Maybe she thought her money gave her privileges.
She was pretty, she was smart. She was passionate, she was rich. Don’t be too indignant, Puma. Calm down. She means well.
A car went by on my left and the driver shouted something at me. A car went by on my right and a lady glared at me from behind the wheel. I kept my eyes to the front and drove to the office.
There, I added what little I had done since last sitting here and tried to align it with the rest, looking for the lead. Nothing, nothing, nothing….
It was ready to snap at me, the obvious was, but it would only be the obvious from hindsight. There were so many cross-currents of interest, conflict of personalities, so many half-revealed animosities clouding the pure air of sweet reason.
Why does a killer kill? For money, lust, hate, greed, protection, frustration — the reasons were as vast and varied as the people who killed and were killed. Some kill in anger and some in sick objectivity and some in ecstasy.
Why did this killer kill?
I couldn’t be sure the same killer had killed both Guest and Hansen, but it seemed like a reasonable surmise. Had Giampolo misled me? Had Guest, perhaps, also had a piece of the top? Giampolo would have reason to lie if that were true, as revelation would lead the police to investigate wrestling and Giampolo didn’t want that. But if he had lied, had he also killed?
Harvest, it seemed, had decided to cross Giampolo. If Guest was the third partner, Harvest would have reason to kill him. Because when Giampolo died, Harvest would be the sole heir. Harvest didn’t know Mike Petalious was already picked for that honor.
Did Miss Quintana know that Mike had been chosen as heir and that Guest might be a threat to that? Now, you are reaching, Puma; Lindsay Hall girls rarely murder for profit.
I thought of her in a white sheath dress as Giampolo had once seen her and envied him the memory of it. I wondered if she had a pair of jet pendant earrings.
I ate dinner at the Horned Frog because I could walk over and wouldn’t need to buck the early evening traffic. I ate slowly, trying to think, trying to find a path through the maze around the twin deaths. Perhaps it hadn’t been the same killer, but I felt sure that it was.
It wasn’t exactly the best time in the world to go back to the Hansen residence, after his sister had spent the afternoon at the mortician, but I drove over anyway.
The new Chev was parked at the side of the house. It was just starting to get dark and there was a light showing in the kitchen and I could see the shadow of a woman moving around in there.
The front doorbell didn’t seem to be working; I knocked.
The woman who came to the door didn’t look like a relative of Einar’s. She was dark and short, with a full figure that just missed being chunky.
“My name is Joe Puma,” I said. “Perhaps Einar has mentioned me to you?”
She nodded. “I know who you are. Mrs. Tullgren told me you were here this afternoon. Come in, Mr. Puma.”
The house was brightly furnished and hospital-clean. She said, “I’m getting dinner. We can talk in the kitchen.”
She stood next to the sink, dicing carrots. I sat in a chair near the rear door. I asked, “Do you think Einar sent you to the Valley yesterday so he could meet someone here?”
She shook her head. “He was always after me to go up and visit Aunt Helga. Why would he have to meet anybody here? If he didn’t want me to see them, he could drive to their house, couldn’t he?”
“Yes. Do you have any idea who could have — done this?”
She shook her head.
I said hesitantly, “I’m not the police, you know.”
She turned around to look at me. “What does that mean? Anything I’d tell you, I’d tell the police. Einar had nothing to hide.”
I asked, “Did a man named Gregory Harvest ever visit him here?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
“Mike Petalious?”
“Big Greek with a good-looking wife?”
“Yes.”
“They were here a couple days ago.” She frowned. “Sunday, that was it. Sunday afternoon, Einar had a boy working the stand and he was home and this couple came over. They sat out in front and talked.”
“Was it friendly talk?”
“I guess. Einar didn’t seem disturbed to see them.”
“Did Duncan Guest come here often?”
The woman turned around again. “Once. There was a man Einar and I didn’t agree about and I told my brother I wouldn’t have that man in the house. Scum, that’s what he was.”
“Einar thought a lot of him, didn’t he?”
“I guess he did. He isn’t usually that wrong about people, but he admired this Duncan Guest. Thought he was awful smart.” She looked at me bleakly. “Do you think it was the same person that — that done both things?”
“It’s a strong possibility. Miss Hansen, isn’t there anything you can think of that might help me?”
“Nothing,” she said. “Absolutely nothing, or I would have given it to the police.”
I thanked her and left. She didn’t seem to be mourning her brother too much; her voice had been matter of fact and well controlled. Perhaps the full realization hadn’t come home to her yet. Though it must have if she had been making arrangements for the funeral this afternoon.
The water was barely visible now, and in the hills to the east, north and south the lights were going on. There were lights in the home of Whitey Tullgren and the sound of a television program.
It was suddenly cool after the heat of the day and a chill moved across my shoulders as I climbed into the Plymouth. I had nowhere to go, no lead to follow or suspect to interrogate. I was blind and somewhere a killer was laughing.
I stopped at the Venice Station. Macrae and his side-kick weren’t there, but a detective who was familiar with the case talked with me in the airless room.
They had the same theory I had: the same killer had killed both men. They were nowhere, as I was. I thought of telling them what I had learned about Harvest and had not put into my report. But I thought of his secretary’s three-year-old daughter and kept my mouth shut.
“What about the earring?” I asked him. “What’s Macrae’s theory on that?”
“The same as before, he figures it was Hansen’s way of naming his killer.”
“Do you?”
/>
The detective smiled. “I wouldn’t have any theories in conflict with Sergeant Macrae’s right now. He’s like a man with a perpetual toothache.”
“Wouldn’t it be more logical to think Hansen pulled it off the ear of the woman who stabbed him?”
“Maybe. That would make it Miss Gallegan, wouldn’t it?”
“Not necessarily. It was a production earring; there could be thousands of them around.”
“Miss Gallegan must have known that. But she claims it was hers.”
I went out and it was now dark. From the direction of Santa Monica, searchlights stabbed the sky; a new supermarket was opening. The Plymouth started with a shudder and moved along Main Street with a clatter of tappets.
Nowhere, nothing, nowhere, nothing…. I thought of Einar Hansen’s funeral coming up and of Duncan Guest’s funeral, now history. Some near-revelation flickered dimly in me and died. Funeral, funeral, funeral … What had it tried to trigger?
I had an urge to drive over to Sheila Gallegan’s, but dismissed it. I didn’t want to see her tonight. I didn’t want to see Deborah either and I hoped that message she’d written on her card had been a gag. Two people had died and it seemed likely their deaths would not be avenged. People die every second, I tried to tell myself.
Funeral, funeral, funeral … Was some truth awaiting me at Einar Hansen’s funeral?
The police might have knowledge they weren’t revealing to me. They had the men and the equipment, but they also had a lot of crimes to solve and too much area to patrol.
Nobody was waiting for me at my apartment. I took a hot shower, pared my toe nails, shaved, put on a pair of cotton pants and a T-shirt and sat down in front of the television set with a can of tomato juice.
Peace was starting to settle into my bones when I heard the turn of a key in my door. I put on a smile to greet her with. After all, she was rich. And had rich friends.
She came in, a quart of Jack Daniel’s Tennessee Whiskey in one hand and a bottle of ginger ale in the other.
“Putting Jack Daniel’s into ginger ale,” I told her, “is a sacrilege I shouldn’t permit under my roof.”
“I don’t like water,” she said. “Sweet things, that’s what I like Sweet, soft things.”
Night Lady Page 14
